


Splash 💦

by michaelandthegodsquad



Series: The Deep End [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sakusa Kiyoomi, Extramarital Affairs, Flirting, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Angst, Pining, Pool cleaner Miya Atsumu, Porn With Plot, Sort Of, Swimming Pools, Top Miya Atsumu, Trophy husband Sakusa Kiyoomi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: Atsumu glances over at his employer's husband: half-reclined on one of the loungers, sunglasses perched on top of his head as he sips at sparkling mineral water through a straw."Levels are good, Kiyoomi-san. I'll do a quick clean and be out of yer hair in no time."The corner of Kiyoomi's mouth quirks up as he smirks around his straw. "No rush, Atsumu. I don't have anywhere to be."
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: The Deep End [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148393
Comments: 25
Kudos: 476
Collections: sakuatsu/





	Splash 💦

**Author's Note:**

> Or: The poolboy AU yall bullied me into writing
> 
> Many thanks to [Dindi](https://twitter.com/dindie__) for all the encouragement and quick beta work and also!! the incredible!!! [ART!!!](https://twitter.com/dindie__/status/1358282079155310592?s=19) I'm still screaming about it!
> 
> Can't believe this all started with a tweet about Kiyoomi wearing fancy robes smh

Atsumu's employer is weird.

Okay, maybe weird is a bit too harsh. And okay, so Kiyoomi is not his employer, technically. That would be Sato, he supposes, although he never met the man. 

Sato is a lot older than his husband. Atsumu has figured that much from the photos of Sato that he sees as he ducks into the guest house by the pool to change into his shorts before starting his work. There's a few photos on the table in the genkan: one of him and Kiyoomi on their wedding day, another standing under the Eiffel Tower, another on the deck of one of those overwater bungalows in Bora Bora. They're a well-traveled couple, it seems, although Kiyoomi never seems to be having much of a good time in any of the photos, his signature pout and blank stare aimed at the camera even as he wades in crystal blue waters or leans his head on his husband's shoulder in front of a snowed-in cabin.

Which is weird, because Kiyoomi smiles at Atsumu  _ a lot. _

And that's another thing. Atsumu wouldn't have dared call his employer's husband by his given name, but Kiyoomi had insisted. He recalls the first time they were introduced, in the main house when Atsumu was meeting with the head maid to get a copy of the keys to the storage shed. They'd nearly passed each other in the main hall, until Kiyoomi had paused on his way to the front door and looked back at them. 

"Hold on, Miori," Kiyoomi had said, and Miori had stopped so suddenly that Atsumu nearly walked right into her back where he kept pace behind her. "Who is this?"

While Miori introduced him to the new pool cleaner, Kiyoomi kept his gaze on Atsumu, trailing from his eyes to his feet and back as if sizing him up. He'd offered his hand for Atsumu to shake, which was unusual to say the least—typically Atsumu barely met his clients directly, always dealing with their staff instead. But here Kiyoomi was in a tailored all-black suit that probably cost more than three months of Atsumu's rent, looking like he just stepped off a runway and yet giving Atsumu his undivided attention.

So you can't blame him for the way his breath hitched when Kiyoomi took his hand in his, lingering as he stretched his fingers until the tips brushed over the pulse point on Atsumu's wrist. "Sakusa Kiyoomi. But please call me Kiyoomi," he'd said, directing that knowing smirk at Atsumu for the first time. "My husband isn't around much and we keep Miori pretty busy, so feel free to let me know if you need anything while you're here."

Atsumu is pretty sure, even in that moment, that their handshake lasted longer than what was strictly socially acceptable. But Kiyoomi's eyes were dark and heavy with an intent that Atsumu didn't quite understand yet, keeping him rooted to the spot until someone called for Kiyoomi (and actually, they called for Sakusa-sama, now that Atsumu thinks about it) to let him know that his car was out front.

Atsumu feels those eyes on him now as he squats by the edge of the pool with his test kit. Atsumu can almost feel Kiyoomi's eyes burning holes in his back as he swirls the tube he's using to test the water's alkalinity. The levels are good, so all he'll need to do is vacuum the bottom, skim the top, and add some more chlorine before he's done for the day. 

He stands, stretching with his arms above his head before he shakes out the neck of his tank top for some small relief from the heat. When Atsumu bends to pack up the test kit, he happens to glance over at his employer's husband, half-reclined on one of the loungers, sunglasses perched on top of his head as he sips at sparkling mineral water through a straw. 

Kiyoomi is staring at Atsumu's shorts. Again.

He does that a lot, too. Atsumu worries sometimes that maybe they're too short, but he can't help his height or the way the fabric never fails to ride up the thick muscle of his thighs. He tries in vain to tug the hem down to mid-thigh, at least, but they ride up again almost immediately. 

Maybe Kiyoomi just likes the shorts? Atsumu could tell him where he got them, but Kiyoomi could probably afford something way nicer. Plus, his style tends to lean more...well…

Today, for instance, Kiyoomi is wearing a sleek black one-piece suit, the halter showing off the width of his shoulders as the collar sits high on his clavicle. The fabric is smooth except for where it clings to the ridges of Kiyoomi's abs underneath, the bottom hem riding high on his hips and showing off the length of his smooth legs. He keeps his ankles crossed, drawing attention to the shiny black heels on his feet, open-toed with a thin strap wrapped around the ankles. 

The first time Atsumu ever saw Kiyoomi in an outfit like this, he’d politely complimented him, only to have Kiyoomi offer to buy him one just like it. His grin was positively shark-like when Atsumu had stuttered out, “N-no thank you, Kiyoomi-san!”

Now, Atsumu has to wipe the sweat off his hairline and steel himself with a deep breath as he picks up his testing kit before addressing Kiyoomi directly. "Levels are good, Kiyoomi-san. I'll do a quick clean and be out of yer hair in no time."

The corner of Kiyoomi's mouth quirks up as he smirks around his straw. "No rush, Atsumu. I don't have anywhere to be."

Atsumu is pretty sure that's not true. He's been in the main house once or twice now, and there are photos on the mantle of Kiyoomi dressed to the nines at fancy galas and shaking hands with important people. Atsumu had looked him up when he'd first been hired and found that while Kiyoomi didn't have a  _ job _ , per se, he does a lot of philanthropic work and manages a lot of the events for his husband's charity foundation.

So Atsumu isn't sure how Kiyoomi manages to find the time to lounge by the pool every time Atsumu is here. 

Atsumu sets his test kit down by the rest of his supplies, making quick work of vacuuming the pool floor and skimming the surface. Kiyoomi, when he's not looking at the book in his lap, continues to watch him, although he drops his sunglasses back down to his nose at some point.

Atsumu tries not to stare back. He really does. But it's hard not to when Kiyoomi looks like  _ that,  _ all laid out with long, strong legs and broad, muscled shoulders and biceps that drive Atsumu to distraction. Not for the first time, Atsumu wonders if Kiyoomi isn't secretly some kind of athlete, if he doesn't model on the side. 

(Oh, but he  _ has _ modeled before, Atsumu reminds himself. There are a couple of framed photos from his ad campaigns in the main house, and Kiyoomi had mentioned it during one of their first poolside chats, how he'd stopped just before his engagement to Sato.

Right. Sato. Kiyoomi's very wealthy, very powerful husband. Atsumu has to remind himself of that sometimes.)

Atsumu drops off the vacuum and the skimmer in the supply shed and washes his hands. He picks up the hem of his tank to wipe the sweat from his forehead one last time as he exits the shed, ready to keep his eyes down as he rushes past Kiyoomi. 

"All done, Kiyoomi-san, have a good—"

"Hold on, Atsumu," Kiyoomi says, stopping Atsumu in his tracks at the edge of the pool.

Kiyoomi sets his book aside and takes off his sunglasses, sitting up as he reaches for his sunscreen. "Before you go, could you help me reapply? I burn so easily," he says, grinning at Atsumu and holding out the bottle as if he knows Atsumu won't say no.

And, well. Atsumu also knows he won't say no. 

Still, he looks around for a moment for someone else who can help Kiyoomi in his stead. The main house is always bustling with staff activity, and yet he and Kiyoomi always manage to find themselves completely alone by the pool every time Atsumu comes by.

Atsumu holds back a sigh as he approaches, already reaching for the bottle. "Are ya sure, Kiyoomi-san? I could probably get one of the attendants from inside to—"

"That won't be necessary, Atsumu," Kiyoomi interrupts, already setting his sunglasses aside on the table next to his lounger and locking eyes with Atsumu as he begins to turn over onto his front. "I trust that your hands are more than capable of getting the job done."

The suit is backless, because...of course it is. Kiyoomi has a strong back on top of everything else, broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist. The bottom of the suit rides high, showing off the firm muscle of Kiyoomi’s ass until the fabric begins to disappear between his cheeks. Atsumu swallows and takes another steadying breath as he flicks the cap off the bottle and pours it into his hand. The SPF is pretty high, which Atsumu supposes makes sense given Kiyoomi’s pale skin. He sets the bottle down on the edge of the lounger and rubs his hands together, warming the fluid before he reaches for Kiyoomi’s back. 

Kiyoomi hums when Atsumu’s hands make contact with his skin, arching into the touch. Atsumu keeps his hands light, tries to focus on just getting the sunscreen on every inch of Kiyoomi’s skin he can see (and not an inch more). Kiyoomi turns his head, eyeing Atsumu’s awkward position where he’s standing next to the lounger, bent over to reach his back. “You can get on top if it’s easier,” he says, breezy, as if Atsumu doesn’t almost choke on his spit at the thought.

Atsumu shouldn’t. He really,  _ really  _ shouldn’t. In fact, he runs through all the reasons he shouldn’t in his head—he’s at work right now, technically, for one. He has one more client to get to this afternoon. He’s already beginning to firm up in his shorts as it is, and that’s just from a perfunctory application of sunscreen to Kiyoomi’s back. Kiyoomi, who is—as Atsumu reminds himself for the hundredth time today alone—very,  _ very  _ married, to Atsumu’s  _ boss,  _ no less.

Kiyoomi tilts his head up, locking eyes with Atsumu from under his lashes. “Please, Atsumu? You’ll need to be thorough, my skin is very sensitive.”

Atsumu’s breath leaves him in a single  _ whoosh _ , and he kicks off his sandals before setting one knee on the lounger. He tries to scoot back as much as possible so his weight settles on Kiyoomi’s thighs and no higher, balancing carefully to avoid tipping the whole seat. 

It is easier, this way, to apply the sunscreen evenly, to work it into Kiyoomi’s skin until it almost glistens in the afternoon sun. Atsumu tries to look anywhere else, desperate for the distraction, but aside from the sparkling crystal-blue water of the pool and some vacant deck furniture, there’s not much to see. He half wishes one of the maids or attendants or  _ someone  _ would come out here to keep him in check, but then he thinks of the position they’d catch him in, half-hard as he massages sunscreen into his boss’s husband's skin. So maybe it’s best that no one sees. 

His eyes trail to the back of Kiyoomi’s head, his face pillowed on his arms. Atsumu has never noticed the short fuzz of an undercut beneath Kiyoomi’s curls, and finds himself wondering if it’s as soft as it looks. The back of Kiyoomi’s neck is red; Atsumu attributes it to sun exposure and leans forward to spread some of the sunscreen onto the skin there.

Kiyoomi gasps underneath him, his eyes opening suddenly. Atsumu pauses, wondering if he’s somehow crossed a line, eyes drawn to the flush high on Kiyoomi’s cheeks that he’s sure mirrors his own.

“It’s fine, you just startled me,” Kiyoomi says after a moment, relaxing into the lounger again. “Thank you. Please continue.”

Atsumu nods, his hands continuing his journey down Kiyoomi’s back. Halfway down, he thinks he feels a knot in the muscle and—ever the glutton for punishment—Atsumu digs his thumbs in, beginning to work out the tension. 

Kiyoomi moans.

It’s a quiet thing, one Atsumu may not have noticed if he wasn’t hyper fixated on every movement and every sound Kiyoomi makes. He swallows and tries to will away the growing tightness in his shorts.

“That feels good, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi tells him, sighing. “Just as I thought, you’re very good with your hands.” 

It’s possible for humans to spontaneously combust, right? Atsumu thinks he saw it happen in an anime or two. He feels about halfway there now.

Mercifully, he’s almost done—he gets the sunscreen all the way down Kiyoomi’s back, just to the edge of the swimsuit, and down his exposed flanks. He’s already planning an exit strategy, prepared to stand quickly and position his tank so that it covers the tent in his shorts as he makes his way off the property. 

“All done, Kiyoomi-san,” he says, and moves to get up. 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, looking at him over his shoulder. “I think you missed a spot.” 

Atsumu frowns. “Missed?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow then wiggles his hips. Atsumu promptly chokes on his next breath. 

“I shouldn’t—” he says, but Kiyoomi reaches back and takes Atsumu’s hand in his, his skin soft against Atsumu’s calloused fingers. 

“Do you want to?” Kiyoomi asks, and well. 

“W-What about Sato-sama?”

Kiyoomi huffs with a small smile, withdrawing his hand and moving to lean up on his elbows. “It’s nice of you to think about my husband, but I wouldn’t worry about it. We have our arrangements.” 

Atsumu doesn’t have a chance to process that before Kiyoomi is lifting his hips and pushing them back, his ass settling snugly against the bulge in Atsumu’s shorts. Atsumu groans, his hands immediately scrambling to grab Kiyoomi’s hips and pull them closer to him until his clothed cock is slotted firmly between Kiyoomi’s cheeks.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, breathy, as he continues to grind back against Atsumu. “How long are you planning to make me wait before you fuck me?”

“Fucking  _ hell, _ Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, pulling his tank over his head and tossing it onto the ground. As Atsumu scrambles to pull his shorts down low enough to free his dick, Kiyoomi wastes no time in reaching behind himself, dipping a hand between his legs and pulling at the snaps in the crotch of his swimsuit until the whole thing falls open. The stretchy fabric immediately springs back until it settles around Kiyoomi’s waist, leaving his bare ass exposed as he presses back against Atsumu again.

Atsumu curses under his breath as he takes hold of Kiyoomi’s hips again, pulling them together without layers of fabric coming between them while Kiyoomi keens. “Don’t have any lube, fuck,” he grumbles, and for one horrifying moment, he eyes the bottle of sunscreen on the ground next to them.

Luckily, Kiyoomi is prepared: he digs one hand under the cushion of the lounger and pulls out a small bottle of lube and a single foil-wrapped condom, passing it back to Atsumu wordlessly. Later, Atsumu will ask how long he’d been keeping that there, how he knew Atsumu would give in, but not—not right now.

Instead, Atsumu drips sun-warmed lube onto one hand and spreads the other on the middle of Kiyoomi's back to hold him steady as he begins to press his fingers into him. Kiyoomi groans long and low, raising his hips to push back onto Atsumu's fingers. He's already wet and relaxed, like he got started before he even came outside, a thought which Atsumu has to set aside to keep his head from spinning. Kiyoomi's hole opens up easily around his fingers, hot and velvety and sucking Atsumu's fingers in as it demands more. 

“Yer hole is so  _ soft,  _ Kiyoomi, fuck,” he says with a shaky exhale as he slides another finger in. Atsumu watches the muscles of Kiyoomi's rim contract around his fingers and finds his mouth watering with how badly he wants to get his mouth on Kiyoomi's hole, how he wants to work him open until he's wet and sloppy on his tongue but—

”I’m ready, Atsumu, come on,” Kiyoomi says, breathless, his eyes dark as he looks at Atsumu over his shoulder.

Maybe another time, then.  _ If _ there is another time. If Atsumu isn’t fired by this time tomorrow.

Atsumu hopes there is, because he thinks he may already be addicted to the sounds Kiyoomi makes—the low, continuous groan as Atsumu eases his cock into his warm, slick hole. The lilt to Kiyoomi's voice as he says, “Finally,” with a low chuckle. 

“I’ve been trying to get your dick in me for weeks. Fuck, give me a minute, you're thicker than I'm used to," Kiyoomi says, voice strained.

"Shit," Atsumu hisses, quiet. He has to catch his breath already, to keep still and think of something other than the way he can already feel Kiyoomi’s hole pulsing around him.

After a moment of adjustment, Kiyoomi wiggles his hips back against Atsumu. “I’m good now. Give it to me,” he demands. Atsumu is helpless to the way his hips jerk forward at that, to the way they keep driving forward, seeking Kiyoomi's searing warmth. He's lost to the way Kiyoomi is already driving his hips back and melting into him, to the frankly overwhelming heat of it all—the heat of their sun-warmed skin, the slick heat of Kiyoomi’s hole squeezing around him, the heat of weeks of tension coming to a head. 

Atsumu swears his brain is melting out of his ears, his thoughts a haze of sensation that overtakes every rational thought. He barely even registers the smell of freshly chlorinated water just a few feet away or the sound of their skin slapping together echoing out on the otherwise empty grounds. Distantly, he wonders if anyone in the main house can hear them--can hear the impact of their bodies, the way Kiyoomi groans and babbles for me, the way Atsumu whines every time he’s pulled back in.

Kiyoomi isn’t looking at him as Atsumu continues to rut into him, as Kiyoomi pushes back to meet him halfway. He’s gripping the cushion of the lounger, white-knuckled, and every time Atsumu drives forward it punches another lilting grunt out of him. Atsumu’s eyes trail down his flushed skin, marveling at the almost hourglass figure he paints: wide shoulders and trim waist flaring wider to his hips and firm ass. Atsumu watches it jiggle as they move together, the skin rippling every time their hips collide.

"Fucking knew it,” Kiyoomi says between breaths. “Knew you’d be thick, knew you’d fill me up so good. Keep going, Atsumu.” 

As if Atsumu could stop now.

He eyes the back of Kiyoomi’s swimsuit where it’s bunched at his waist. Atsumu gets a firm grip on it and twists the fabric around his hand like a lead or a handle, using it as leverage to pull Kiyoomi back against him even harder. Kiyoomi whines, sinking further onto his elbows and angling his ass up impossibly more. Atsumu watches the way Kiyoomi’s hole stretches around him and the way his own cock almost tugs on the rim every time he withdraws and the way sweat beads on Kiyoomi's skin until he he’s hyper fixated on everything Kiyoomi, sight, sound, scent, desperately trying to commit it all to memory.

Each sound punched out of Kiyoomi has Atsumu desperate for more, barely able to formulate a thought past processing Kiyoomi’s delirious ramblings. He only slows down to lean his body over Kiyoomi’s, dropping soft kisses onto his shoulders and letting his thrusts ease into a deep, rolling grind. “Kiyoomi, can I kiss you?” 

Kiyoomi laughs at that, a quick, rumbling sound. For a moment Atsumu thinks he’s going to say no—he begins to plan an exit strategy, to figure out how to make Kiyoomi believe he was joking about wanting to kiss him. But instead Kiyoomi turns his head and hums, and it’s all the invitation Atsumu needs to lean in and slot their lips together, a first kiss surprisingly chaste considering their current position. It's a little off center until Atsumu pulls back and tries again, licking at the seam of Kiyoomi’s lips. He slides his tongue inside and lets himself taste the hot, wet heat of Kiyoomi’s mouth until Kiyoomi just barely pulls away, a string of saliva stretching briefly between their lips as they part. 

"Atsumu,” Omi breathes out, and even the way he says his name, low and almost reverent, the dark intensity of his glassy eyes, the flush high on his pale cheeks, the golden late-afternoon sun shining on his sweat-slick skin and his soft, glossy curls—Atsumu feels absolutely greedy, wants to consume all of it for himself. 

He loops an arm around the front of Kiyoomi’s chest and pulls him back until they’re upright, his chest is plastered to Kiyoomi’s back, their skin sticky together with sweat and freshly-applied sunscreen, sweet-smelling like coconut. Atsumu can barely process it all, feels overwhelmed and manic and greedy as he ruts desperately into Kiyoomi.

The new angle punches a long, drawn out groan out of Kiyoomi, who reaches back to fist one hand in Atsumu’s hair and hold on for dear life. Kiyoomi swears and continues to babble— "That’s it,  _ fuck, _ right there, Atsumu, keep going, right there. Feels so good." Atsumu has never heard Kiyoomi talk this much at once but he keeps grinding forward, as if he can force the words out by carving out a space for himself inside Kiyoomi. 

Atsumu rests his chin on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, watching the way his cock bobs and flicks precome off the tip and onto the lounger every time Atsumu drives into him. It’s pretty, flushed pink and leaking steadily, and Atsumu licks his lips. 

“Wanna watch ya touch yerself, Omi,” he says. He barely even stops to consider the nickname, so wrapped up in taking in every sight and sound he can get from Kiyoomi. Atsumu watches as Kiyoomi moves to suck on three of his own fingers, his throat bobbing as he inches them further into the back of his mouth to collect the thicker, more viscous spit there. That same hand trails down the length of Kiyoomi's body until he wraps it around his own cock, pumping frantically as his other grip tightens in Atsumu's hair.

"Atsumu, you’re gonna make me come,” Kiyoomi says, his voice growing high and reedy as he approaches the edge. He’s still trying to press back, as if he and Atsumu could possibly be plastered any closer together.

"Fuck, Omi, yer so pretty," Atsumu whispers in Kiyoomi's ear, unable to quash the awe in his voice. "Could watch ya all day. Wanna make ya feel good. Wanna see ya come," he says. 

The responding groan is rough and forceful. Kiyoomi's hand blurs over his cock a few more times before he comes down a long, drawn out moan, spilling all over the lounger, come dribbling out over his fist and dripping down onto the cushion. His hole clenches hot and tight around Atsumu’s cock in waves, and Atsumu curses under his breath, so close his balls ache with it and his hips stutter against Kiyoomi's ass. 

He finds himself groaning into Kiyoomi’s ear before he bites down on the meat of his shoulder as he comes, Kiyoomi jerking at the force of the bite even as he whines. Atsumu's hips keep rutting forward throughout, finally settling into a rolling grind when his muscles start to spasm involuntarily. He feels like he comes forever, until both he and Kiyoomi are grunting with oversensitivity. Atsumu peels himself away from Kiyoomi's back, setting one hand on his hip to steady himself and quell the shaking in his limbs as he pulls out.

He wants to collapse onto the lounger, but Kiyoomi is still kneeling upright, mouth twisting unpleasantly and considering the come on the fabric of the lounger cushion. Atsumu chuckles, swooping in to kiss Kiyoomi's cheek before chuckling and leaning over to grab one of the towels next to the lounger. 

Still watching what he’s doing over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, he takes Kiyoomi’s hands in his and cleans them with the towel. Somehow, despite the way they're pressed together, sweat still cooling on their skin, it still feels like the most intimate thing they’ve done. 

Atumu grabs another towel and lays it out on the lounger, then nudges Kiyoomi until he lets himself relax into the cushion again. As Kiyoomi's eyes flutter closed, Atsumu carefully pulls his condom off, wiping himself off and tucking it onto the first towel. He sets the towel aside and reminds himself to deal with it on his way out. 

Atsumu is helpless to resist the pull of Kiyoomi's soft hand as it tugs him down onto the lounger. He leans up on one elbow and pulls Kiyoomi closer by the waist, pressing light kisses all over his face, his hair, his neck, his shoulders, the twin moles above his brow—everywhere he can reach, taking with a frankly desperate greed, unsure of whether he'll ever be able to do this again. Kiyoomi laughs, soft and relaxed, and sinks into the cushion, one hand resting on Atsumu's flank and caressing the skin there.

"So. _ Omi?" _ Kiyoomi asks, looking up at Atsumu with a soft, teasing smile.

Atsumu flushes, scratching at the back of his neck. "Ah, sorry about that. Kinda got caught up in the moment."

Kiyoomi hums. "Don't be. It was cute." His other hand moves to run his fingers through Atsumu's hair, pushing back sweat-matted locks. "Do you want to stay?" he asks, void of the teasing lilt he's always seemed to save for Atsumu. "We could shower in the guest house, have them bring dinner out here."

Atsumu's thoughts flash to Kiyoomi and Sato's wedding photo in the guest house genkan. Something in his gut sinks like a stone. "Ah, I probably shouldn't," he says, avoiding Kiyoomi's eyes. "I got another client to get to." It's not a lie, really, but saying any more would lay himself bare in a way he doesn't think he wants Kiyoomi to see.

Kiyoomi frowns, considering him. "Alright. I suppose we should talk before we get into anything else anyway." 

Atsumu laughs, but it's a rough, hollow sound as he sits up, adjusting his shorts and reaching for his tank top. "We don't need ta get into anything. I know my place, Kiyoomi-san." He pulls his shirt over his head and roughly tugs it into place, moving to stand until Kiyoomi grabs his wrist and pulls him back down.

"Atsumu," Kiyoomi says, gravity in his voice. "You seem to be under the impression that I do this a lot. I…" he trails off, eyes flicking down to where his hand rests on top of Atsumu's. "I don't. Sato and I have our arrangements, but I don't tend to reach out like this unless I know there's something else there."

Kiyoomi tightens his hold on Atsumu's hand, and Atsumu meets his eyes, searching for something but unsure of what it is.

"Is there something else here, Kiyoomi-san?" 

There's no answer, not right away, except for the babbling of the water feature at the other end of the pool. Atsumu's gut twists as he steels himself for the inevitable, which—

"Do you have your phone with you, Atsumu?"

—is definitely not that. Atsumu blinks, free hand automatically patting the pockets of his shorts and finding them empty. He glances around and finds his phone face down on the ground next to the lounger, no doubt jostled out of his pocket with all the movement. "Right here," he says, passing it over when Kiyoomi reaches a hand out for it. 

"I'm putting my number in, since I don't think you got the hint the last time I tried to give it to you," he says, smiling slightly and glancing up at Atsumu from under his lashes as he taps at Atsumu's phone.

"What? When did you—" Atsumu starts, suddenly remembering weeks ago when Kiyoomi had slipped him his card, saying that he was going away on business but that Atsumu should call him if there was an "emergency" with the pool. Atsumu's ears go red at the thought. A moment later, Kiyoomi's phone pings from where it's resting by the book he'd set down earlier.

Kiyoomi stands, stretching his arms above his head. Atsumu averts his eyes and pointedly does not look at the way Kiyoomi's soft cock rests against his thigh before he begins to pull on his swimsuit cover-up.

"Atsumu," Kiyoomi says, softly, as he rests his hand on Atsumu's cheek. He leans down and presses a soft, barely-there kiss to Atsumu's mouth. "Call me, after your last client," he says, still close enough for their lips to brush together as he speaks. "Come back so we can talk."

Atsumu isn't sure he could deny Kiyoomi even if he wanted to. 

"Yeah," he says, honeyed eyes meeting Kiyoomi's. Atsumu finds himself drowning with no need for rescue. "I'll come back as soon as I'm done."

Kiyoomi smiles, bright and genuine. "I'll be waiting."

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to do two more installments of this! Just gotta...figure out what they'd look like first... (They'll be posted as separate works, so subscribe to the series if you want to see them!)
> 
> I am once again begging you to look at Dindi's incredible [companion art](https://twitter.com/dindie__/status/1358282079155310592?s=19) bc FUCK
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mikeandgodsquad) if you're 18+ and want to cry about 2d characters with me!
> 
> [Fic graphic here!](https://twitter.com/mikeandgodsquad/status/1358277413944365060)


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